


Are the Stars Out Tonight?

by ava_jamison



Category: Batman - Fandom, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing - Fandom, Red Robin - Fandom, Robin (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/ava_jamison
Summary: Happy Birthday!





	Are the Stars Out Tonight?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sistermagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistermagpie/gifts).



> Happy Birthday!

Red Robin comes to slowly, then all at once, adrenaline pounding. Nightwing. Nightwing is there, and he’s checking him over, just like any time Robin’s been hit in the field. There are drugs in his system, he can taste them on his lips, feel them rushing through his body. He’s pinned, too, and Dick works at it, trying to free him, but Tim can’t move. His arms have some give but not enough to reach his utility belt, and his legs are frozen in place. “It’s okay,” Nightwing says, and it’s Nightwing’s hands on his shoulders, but it Dick’s voice, warm and gentle. “Your hearts pounding too hard; your fever’s too high. Come on, Timmy,” he says and Tim can feel it, feel his heart racing, his pulse thrumming, blood rushing through his head, his body… but more important, more than anything else is Nightwing. Dick’s close, his breath warm on Tim’s cheek. “Come on,” he says again, and when Tim opens his eyes Nightwing’s sigh of relief is something Tim can feel, not just hear, a smile against his jawline as Dick ducks down, relieved. 

Tim’s hard. Tim’s hard and his mind makes connections, extrapolates. He remembers falling through the greenhouse roof, glass splintering around him like ice. He remembers cornering Ivy, who had some kind of photosynthetic weapon. She focused it on one of her plants, the one that brought him to the greenhouse in the first place—a huge, other-worldly tree, its top pushing at the glass, bursting through the greenhouse roof. She flashed the light at the tree and the tree reacted, shooting out vines, tendrils that unfurled like tentacles, grabbing Tim, wrapping around his waist and pinning his body to the tree’s thick trunk. He’d thrown his ‘rang but the vines threw off his aim. Instead of taking down Ivy, the batarang nicked a seed pod, and pollen filled the greenhouse like glitter, golden dust swirling around him, landing on every inch of his body, filling his lungs and seeping into his skin. He doesn’t know how long he’s been like this. 

Nightwing skims his gauntlet over Tim’s face, wiping at the pollen, swiping leather across his forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his mouth. God, his mouth. Tim wants to touch, to lick, to bite Dick’s fingers. Anything for more contact. “Your fever’s sky high,” Nightwing says. “One-oh-three and still climbing. You’re marinating in your own juices.” He undoes the clasps on the Red Robin suit and cracks open Tim’s armor like a shell, pushing it off. Tim’s wearing a sweat-damp t-shirt underneath and Nightwing tears it, rips it up the middle to drag it off of him. Tim shivers at the shock; he was cold already and now he’s freezing. 

“Shh,” Nightwing says, “It’s okay. I've got you." He strips off his own gauntlets and uses the torn shirt to wipe sweat from Tim’s bare skin, his arms and chest and waist, down to where the lower half of the Red Robin suit rests on his hips. His skin feels warmer after it's dry but Dick rubs his shoulders anyway, giving him more heat. Tim blinks away the pollen in his eyelashes. When he opens his eyes again, Dick’s staring into them, and meeting his gaze makes another wave of something deep and aching stir, tightening in Tim. He _wants_. Dick is right there and Tim _wants_.

Tim doesn’t have much time, or he’ll be lost, and not just to the fever. Or not, at least, to just the fever in his head, but the one tangled deeper, a ribbon of something he keeps hidden, unfurling now as surely as Ivy’s vines had unfurled to hold him fast. His next words come out in a jumbled rush. “Get me out of here, Nightwing.”

“There isn’t time. The pheromone stimulant—”

“—is working.” Tim closes his eyes against another wave of longing, of need. His body, and worse, his mind, are both out of control and why isn’t Dick getting him out of here? “Why are we still—“ he starts to ask but then Dick kisses him, full and deep and it’s everything Tim’s ever wanted, but he can’t respond. Won’t let himself. He tears his mouth away from Nightwing’s, almost dislocates his arm to get one hand close enough to touch Dick’s shoulder, to push Dick away. Dick’s muscle is taut, hot through the uniform. “It’s gotten to you,” he says, because he won’t do this. He won’t take advantage of Nightwing like this. Dick doesn’t know what he’s doing. “The pollen's gotten to you, too,” he says.

“It didn’t douse me,” Dick says, breath hot against his cheek. “My capillaries aren’t about to explode. Yours are. Your pulse rate’s doubled since the pollen hit you. It’s still climbing. Poison's coursing through your body. We don’t have a choice.”

Tim’s mind reels as he tries to make sense of what Nightwing’s saying. What he’s not saying. 

“Tim, he says,” then, “Robin,” in command voice: “If your body doesn’t release, and release very, very quickly, you’re going to go into cardiac arrest. Can you follow what I’m saying? He lifts Tim’s chin and Tim tries to focus. “It’s the only way. I’m sorry. Just think of me—” Dick smiles, gently, and there’s a twinkle in his eye that’s so him, so very Dick, “—like a girl. Like some really pretty girl.” Dick kisses him again and this time, Tim can't push him away. He's too weak and he _can't_ and his hand on Dick’s shoulder pulls him close. He kisses back, hungrily, and Dick is still smiling when he pulls away. “See, we can do this.” He reaches for the lower half of the Red Robin suit, and deft, like Nightwing always is, he opens the clasps.

“Shh,” Dick says, as he peels away Tim’s jock, although Tim hasn’t said anything, _can’t_ say anything. He’s harder than he’s ever been before, and Dick’s hand is a firm press against him, one hard stroke and Tim shudders all over. It’s what he’s dreamt of for so long but to really have it, to have Dick’s hand on him, is too much. His knees buckle, and if not for the vine’s tether, if not for Dick’s arms, he would fall. 

“Whoa,” Dick says, his voice a soft purr. “Breathe, Timmy.” He draws him close now, both arms around him, so that Tim can feel the rise and fall of his own chest. “Feel my breath? Yeah, like that.” Dick cards his fingers through Tim’s hair, pushing sweat and pollen away from his face, and kisses him again, soft and sweet. It shouldn’t calm him, but it does, and the rabbiting of his heart fades, even as his pulse thrums more loudly and his dick jerks against Nightwing. Dick pushes a strand of hair behind Tim’s ear. “Let’s try that again, okay,” Dick says. “The thing is, Tim? You’re going to have to go slow, okay? I’m gonna need you to coast as long as you can. Don’t come right away, or your heart will ramp up, not down.” He kisses him, slow and deep. “I know it’s not going to be easy, but you’re Robin, okay?”

Tim parses what Dick’s saying, tries to make sense of it.

“You’re seventeen, and you’re whammied, but you’re going to need to take as long as you can with this. We’re in it for the long haul, alright? Slow and steady wins the race.” Dick pulls back, studying his face. “It’s okay,” Dick says again. “Don’t be afraid. I know what I’m doing.” He drops, smooth and graceful, like a dancer, to his knees and Tim hears himself makes a helpless noise before he clamps his lips together. “I’ve done this before,” he says and Tim’s mind reels with the thought but why should it reel with any thought at all when Dick is here, when he’s _right here_ on his knees in front of him. And then there’s a warm, wet mouth closing around his dick and Tim can’t do anything but _feel_. He shudders at Dick’s touch, and Dick smiles—he can feel Dick smile around him, and that’s a feeling he never even imagined. He wishes—in his best fantasies, the ones he barely lets himself have, but sometimes, late at night, Tim lets himself dream—in those fantasies, Dick, all supple planes and warm, pliant muscles, lets Tim kiss him for hours, kisses him breathless. Dick smiles and laughs and holds him and kisses him while he comes. He wishes he could kiss Dick, hold him, and maybe Dick can read his mind because he reaches for Tim’s hand. Tim can’t reach Dick, can’t hold and clasp Dick, but Dick can hold his hand and let him take his mouth and that’s everything Tim could want, had ever known he could want. Dick swallows around him and Tim lets out a gasp. He is shaking all over.

“Shh,” Timmy, “Dick whispers as he pulls off. “Shh, it’s okay. Go slow.” He puts a hand on each of Tim’s hips, holding him, like there was anywhere Tim would go, could go, even if he wasn’t pinned. It’s the best thing and the only thing, to feel that strong, capable grip on his hips, holding him fast. Dick leans in, breath ghosting over his dick, before engulfing him again in warmth, wetness and a rhythmic, sweet suction. “Dick,” says Tim. “I can’t. I can’t hold on.”

“Shh,” Dick says, pulling back to mouth him, just mouthing him, gentle, tender. He’s slow and he’s tentative but then he’s deep and warm and it’s _Dick_ and Tim pushes himself, tries his best. He _can_ do this, he tells himself. He has to tense, trying to hold back. He wants to, he really wants to, because Nightwing wants him to hold on and he, Tim, wants this moment to go on forever, to always feel this, Dick holding him like this, Dick with his mouth on him like this. He looks down, and Dick on his knees is too much, Nightwing on his knees is too much and he’s going to come so he cries out a warning, “Nightwing!” he says, and Nightwing pulls off. 

"Not yet, Robin," he says, and it's Dick's voice, Dick’s _command_ voice but it's different. It's Dick's _sex_ command voice, and that's something Tim never thought he'd hear in his wildest dreams. The sound of it makes him dizzy, makes him feel like he'll pass out _right there_ , and then Dick’s mouth is sliding down his dick and the air leaves Tim’s lungs like he’s been punched. It’s loud enough that Dick lets go of Tim’s hip and reaches for his wrist, even as his mouth swallows around Tim’s length. He opens his eyes, feeling for Tim's pulse, and finally looks up at Tim with relief. He shifts his hold, this time tracing his thumb gently over the inside of Tim’s wrist, and that, even more than Dick’s mouth, warm and sweet—that hold, the gentle caress of Dick’s thumb on the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, that is what makes Tim cry out, come, and shoot himself down Dick’s throat. 

Dick pulls off but he doesn’t stand. Instead he leans forward, forehead resting in the curve of Tim’s hip. It takes Tim a moment, but then he realizes: Dick is stripping his own dick, fast and hard. He does it silently for several pulls, and then, suddenly, he looks up, eyes flashing behind his lenses. “Timmy,” he whispers, or maybe Tim imagines it, because a moment later it's all over, and Dick has his shuriken out, slicing away at the tendrils holding him. When the vines are cut away, Tim stumbles, but Dick catches him, helps him to his feet. “You okay, Red Robin?” he says, like he’s just applied a tourniquet or sewed some stitches, and Tim smiles back, because he can’t help it. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Dick feels his forehead like a school nurse or something, and then checks his pulse and Tim will never have his pulse taken again without feeling Dick’s fingers there, warm and gentle, safe and comforting, holding him as he comes. “Yeah.” Dick hands him the halves of his costume, and Red Robin pulls himself together but when he is dressed, Dick stops him, checks his eyes for reflexes, and shocks him by kissing him one last time. 

Dick smiles. “Let’s go get Ivy.”


End file.
